Wednesday, 5 January 2011


As I drew the curtains on the night's dross parade of stop-start traffic lights and late-hour neon-coded eateries from my from fifteenth floor luxury penthouse corner suit overlooking a street re-branded "something boulevard", I consider my options with respect to relaunching my career as a literary agent. An autobiography, detailing my decent from polite society facilitated by an all-consuming crack habit - punctuated by between fix bridge binges with ludicrously expensive vodka together with the occasional lucid flashback to the horrors and indignities of a moderately wealthy family upbringing (my dad had a small, single propeller plane) - might do the trick. May be a short stint as a male prostitute would be the NYT best-seller / Oprah Book Club clincher?

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